


strike the match

by Liu



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bisexual Male Character, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, bottom!mick, for Ray, identity crisis, with a happy ending eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8847097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: Ray has never been attracted to men - but when he sees Mick kissing a guy, he can't get the image out of his head.Eventually, Mick notices.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a porny plot-bunny I had to get out of my head. Will feature bottom!Mick in chapter 2, so if that's not your thing, this might not be a fic for you :'D
> 
> I apologize for my mediocre smut-writing skills.
> 
> HUGE thanks goes to augustjustice and xander-ereinion from tumblr for their fantastic and lightning-fast beta work, thank you both so much!

“I’ll do it,” Mick growls, boots sliding off the table and connecting with the floor, perhaps a little too forcefully. Silence falls over the bridge, which is a remarkable feat considering the past half hour, during which everyone had just grown progressively louder.

 

After all, arguing over who gets to walk into a 1980s gay bar and pick up an engineer with possible ties to Damien Darhk takes a lot of effort. And noise. So far, it’s a tie between Nate, whose counter-arguments have mostly been spluttering, and Ray, who is willing to try but has failed to figure out how to actually flirt with a man. His last attempt at a pick-up line must’ve been what pushed Mick out of his chair and into action, but knowing the cause does not mean that Mick’s words make sense.

 

“You’ll do what?” Sara asks the question everybody is thinking. Mick scowls at her and shrugs.

 

“I’ll go talk to the guy.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Nate snorts, shaking his head. “What’re you going to say?”

 

“Not ‘I like your belt’, that’s for sure,”  Mick snaps back, and Nate closes his mouth with an offended glare, not too happy to be reminded of his own attempt at flirting. Ray can’t really laugh at that, because he hasn’t been doing much better - but he has a hard time picturing Mick in this particular role.

 

“If you want to do this, maybe we can all put our heads together,” Ray offers - the mission is more important than their personal opinions of each other, and Ray himself isn’t so eager to walk into a gay bar. It’s not that he’s prejudiced, because he’s really, really not; he just doesn’t have a great track record of flirting even with people he actually finds attractive. People who also happen to be women, in Ray’s case. 

 

Mick gives him a look that could be interpreted as amusement or irritation, and snorts:

 

“Come on, Haircut - he’s a guy at a bar, looking for a fuck. It ain’t rocket science.”

 

“What if you scare him off?” Jax huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, and Ray can see several others nodding along. But Mick just rolls his eyes, already halfway to the fabrication room:

 

“This isn’t TV, Sparky. Worst case scenario, he says no, I walk away and the Knights in Dorky Armor over there can go flail and stammer at him, that’s sure to get the guy going.”

 

Before any of them can say anything (or, to be precise, before any of them can say anything that doesn’t get lost in the sea of various complaints, suggestions and insults), Mick disappears in the fabrication room. Two minutes later, he emerges in washed-out jeans and a matching jacket, glares at them one last time and walks out into San Francisco, 1982.

 

“The armor’s not dorky,” Nate grumbles sullenly under his breath as they all turn towards surveillance. Whether Mick succeeds or not, they still have a job to do.

 

…

 

A surprisingly short while later, they’re pouring out of the Waverider: they don’t have visual on Mick, but the audio feed from the comm made it pretty clear that Mick has succeeded, in roughly twenty words (six of which were ‘you wanna get out of here?’). 

 

“Man, he makes being gay sound so easy,” Nate sighs, and Sara manages to punch him in the shoulder before he steels on. Ray doesn’t comment, but he secretly agrees with Nate: it’s not that Ray thinks Mick’s hideous, but he doesn’t have a particularly well-developed ability to judge men’s attractiveness, so he can’t be sure. However, it’s still ridiculous how little time it took Mick - and what’s even worse are the sounds coming through their comms as they draw closer to the bar.

 

Mick sure isn’t wasting any time.

 

When they round the corner of the bar, spilling into the alley, the sight that greets them burns itself into Ray’s eyes. Mick has their guy pressed into the wall, and that was to be expected: Ray just would’ve thought Mick would be squeezing the guy’s neck, not his ass. They’re kissing, loudly and messily, and Mick’s jeans weren’t too tight to begin with, but they look even looser now, as if the guy’s already undone Mick’s fly. Ray has to swallow, suddenly unable to move - Sara’s pointed cough tears him out of his thoughts (or, rather, the complete  _ lack _ of those). At the sound, the guy pushes Mick back with a startled yelp, face going red with embarrassment. Mick, on the other hand, just looks disgruntled - he pulls his zipper up and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

 

“Could’ve waited ten more minutes,” he growls  and grabs the guy’s shirt, probably to prevent him from running away at the sight of their strange group. They have him on-board the Waverider in the next five minutes, and judging by the fact that the guy doesn’t look all that surprised by a time ship, it is safe to assume he knows more than he’s letting on.

 

“Where are you going?” Sara frowns at Mick when he attempts to march straight into the makeshift interrogation room they’ve set up sometime in the past months. 

 

“I’ll get something useful out of him,” Mick huffs, and Sara gives him a light shove and a grin:

 

“Sorry, we’re not looking for a show here. You can wait your turn - absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.”

 

With a wink, she disappears behind the door. Mick swears under his breath, adjusts his jeans and marches down the corridor, most likely to grab another beer from his seemingly endless stash.

 

Ray’s throat is just a little bit too dry. He does his best to convince himself that something’s wrong with the air conditioning, but no matter how much he coughs or swallows, it doesn’t go away in the thirty minutes it takes Sara to get the answers they need. In all honesty, the tension in his chest eases up only after Sara kicks their engineer out of the ship with an amnesia pill, before Mick can finish what he started in that damp, smelly alley. 

 

And if Ray sees the shift of Mick’s hips behind his closed eyes when he goes to bed that night, nobody needs to know.

 

...

 

Ray does his best to act normal, but it feels like his brain forgot it had a ‘normal’ setting in the first place. Whenever Mick shows up, Ray coughs and fidgets and tries not to look so hard that he always ends up feeling like a complete creep.

 

The problem is that suddenly, Mick is  _ everywhere _ . 

 

He’s lounging in the common area of the ship, long legs crossed over the table as usual, beer dangling from one hand and a tablet playing a re-run of some show or the other. He’s chuckling quietly here and there, and his shirt stretches over his bicep when he brings the bottle to his lips. He spills, just a little, and rubs at the small damp spot on his chest, and usually Ray would feel a bit upset about the mess, or about the smell of old beer permeating the air, but now, he’s just feeling unsettled, and he doesn’t quite understand why.

 

Mick’s in the kitchen when Ray cooks dinner for all of them - Mick’s fished out a donut from somewhere and normally, Ray would say something about snacks before a meal, but now, all he sees is Mick licking the melted chocolate off his fingers. It reminds Ray of Mick’s tongue shoved down that engineer’s throat, and he nearly cuts his own finger off when he tries (and fails) not to think about it.

 

Mick is also in the shower, and that’s something Ray should’ve been used to by now: the Waverider’s not large enough for them to have private bathrooms and it’s never been a problem before. But now, Ray walks in to brush his teeth and finds Mick, all wet skin and broad shoulders and soaped-up face, dragging a razor down his neck, completely focused and scowling a little at his expression in the mirror - and Ray turns on his heel and flees without giving his brain an opportunity to think about what’s wrong. With himself, or with the world at large.

 

It’s getting to the point where Ray spaces out in the middle of a briefing, annoying Sara as she has to snap her fingers in front of his face to grab his attention. He stammers out a hasty reply, but even he knows he’s not giving it his best. He feels Mick’s eyes on him, and it itches under his skin so much that Ray fidgets in his chair, but he resolutely does not look Mick’s way.

 

Ray is a little disappointed with himself: he never would’ve thought that he’s be so unsettled by the realization that one of his teammates is gay. He never had a problem with Sara, after all - but somehow, thinking about Mick, grinding against that guy in that alley, just rubs Ray the wrong way.

 

No pun intended, of course.

 

He keeps thinking about that bar, about Mick and that guy, whenever he sees his grumpy teammate around. His eyes keep tracking Mick’s movements, trying to find some underlying appeal in the way he presses a beer bottle to his lips, in the way he leans over a control panel or leans against a wall - anything that would indicate the reason for Mick’s impossibly quick success with the Darhk’s engineer. He has no other way of finding out: Mick and he haven’t been close enough for any personal questions ever since Ray rebuilt his suit (and destroyed the cold gun - he’s not sure which of those two has been the catalyst to them drifting apart again, but he misses the short-lived partnership from time to time; misses it more as he watches Mick and sees the wistfulness behind his smirks).

 

Ray never would’ve called Mick Rory an intriguing man before: a common criminal, a thug, and then a teammate, a friend. The categories he has built in his head for Mick have always been very simple, very definite, and this thing where he can’t seem to look away from Mick is screwing with Ray’s mental equilibrium. He tells himself, numerous times, that it has to stop: that he’s not going to wake up one day and  _ see _ the answers written on Mick’s forehead. Especially not when Ray himself isn’t sure what the questions are. But telling himself and actually managing to do it are two separate things, and so Ray finds himself staring again and again.

 

He’s working on his suit, trying not to think about the way Mick looked in that underground fighting ring, when the door to his room slides open with a quiet ‘whoosh’. He raises his head from the mechanism of a joint he’s tinkering with, and his breath catches in his throat, dry and hot all of a sudden.

 

Mick hasn’t washed up yet - he’s still wearing the horrid, shiny boxing shorts and little else, every muscle, every scar on his body highlighted by the sheen of oil and sweat covering him from head to toe. Ray opens his mouth, but no sound comes out; Mick steps inside and lets the door slide shut behind him.

 

“If you got something to say, Haircut, say it,” he growls, and Ray frantically searches for something to say, wracks his brain to find anything that could’ve warranted this exchange, but he comes up short.

 

“What?”

  
“You’ve been looking at me funny ever since San Francisco,” Mick snaps and crosses the ten feet between them in several long strides. Ray instinctively gets up from his seat, gaping and speechless but prepared to defend himself, to apologize or to explain. He never gets the chance. Mick raises his hands and Ray jerks back, just a little, body tensing up before a fight - and then Mick’s slippery palm grabs the nape of his neck and their mouths crush together with bruising force. Ray yelps, just a little, but Mick swallows the sound and licks into his mouth, and Ray’s  knees are suddenly weak. The kiss tastes like beer and sweat and Ray’s never kissed a guy before, but it goes straight to his cock like an electric shock, body vibrating with the need for more. 

 

He grips Mick’s shoulders to steady himself, but it seems like an impossible task - Mick sucks on his lower lip and Ray whines, embarrassingly loudly, lets the other man push him the few feet towards the wall until Ray’s back hits the hard surface. Mick never lets go of him - he might be an inch or two shorter, but he feels like an immovable wall of muscle and heat, crowding into Ray’s personal space with no regard for propriety or… well, anything else. His hand slides under Ray’s shirt, grips his hip, and Ray’s brain is full of blaring red lights but he doesn’t know how to stop this. Doesn’t know if he wants to. 

 

Mick’s rough, callused fingertips draw harsh lines against the small of his back, against the tender skin at the nape of his neck, and Ray loses himself in the feel of the kiss. Their mouths make an obscene, wet sound when they part and Mick bites at Ray’s throat with focus that he usually devotes only to lighters and beer bottles; he grinds their hips together and being on the receiving end of the move that’s been haunting Ray’s dreams for weeks makes him keen out loud. 

 

“Never thought you’d be so loud,” Mick sniggers against Ray’s skin, hot breath brushing the sensitive spot below Ray’s ear, making him shiver. He curls his arms around Mick’s neck, because he doesn’t know what else to do,  what the etiquette is for this kind of a thing, but then Mick’s pulling his shirt off and Ray has to raise his arms to make it happen. He feels like his mind has left his body and all that’s left in its wake is this burning, insurmountable  _ need _ . Once the shirt’s off, Ray lunges for a kiss and Mick lets him, laughs a little against Ray’s lips but opens up for Ray’s tongue, no finesse, no technique at all. 

 

It’s wet and dirty and  _ perfect _ , and Ray knows he’s going to have a mild identity crisis about it later, but for now, he can’t concentrate on anything else but Mick. His large palms cup Ray’s ass, align their hips just right: when Mick rolls his hips again, Ray feels the man’s erection against his own cock, and he realizes with startling clarity that he’s already hard himself. He hasn’t got a boner this fast since he was seventeen, but he can’t find fault with the turn of events when Mick shoves him towards the bunk and then falls on top of Ray in one smooth move. 

 

He feels huge like this, hovering over Ray with an unmistakable heated look in his eyes, a wall of solid muscle, hard all over. He’s nothing like Anna or Felicity or Kendra, not just because he’s a man, but because Ray’s never done this with anyone he wasn’t dating, or at least in love with. Never wanted to, up until now; the thought catches in his throat like water going down the wrong pipe and it breaks the moment, just a little, but Mick must see something in Ray’s eyes because he lines up their hips again and  _ thrusts _ , and Ray forgets to worry due to all the stars he’s seeing. A whole galaxy, at least - he lets out a shaky breath, trying to keep it quiet, but then Mick’s yanking his fly open with startling precision and five seconds later, his oily, sweaty,  _ burning _ hand covers Ray’s cock and he forgets everything except Mick’s touch. 

 

He bucks up into those rough fingers and throws his head back when Mick thumbs the slit of his cock, already leaking. Ray’s going to embarrass himself like he’s a teenager again, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly, all he can think of is Mick’s cock, hard and hot against Ray’s thigh; his jeans and Mick’s shorts become an unbearable obstacle. He drags his blunt nails down Mick’s back when the man twists his wrist just right, and then Ray’s shoving at the elastic of Mick’s only article of clothing. 

 

His mind brings up the image of Mick in that alley, Darhk’s engineer up against that wall, Mick between the man’s spread knees, thrusting. Ray’s not exactly sure about the logistics but he’s got a PhD in figuring out how things work, and he really, really wants to figure  _ this _ out. His first-hand attempt means two handfuls of firm ass and he kneads the tight muscle almost reverently, in awe that this is actually happening. Mick growls, low and guttural, and bites at the juncture of Ray’s neck and shoulder, none too gently but still so, so good. 

 

He pulls back suddenly and Ray swallows the whine threatening to fall from his lips - and then, Mick’s yanking at Ray’s jeans and underwear, tossing his shoes somewhere over his shoulder and Ray’s never felt quite like this, exposed and trembling with need. Sure, he’s had good sex,  _ great _ , even, but the weight of Mick above him when the man settles between Ray’s thighs is something he never knew he wanted, up until now. He shivers when Mick licks into his mouth, lines up their cocks and grinds down; electricity shoots up Ray’s spine and he claws his fingers against Mick’s oil-slick back. His blunt nails catch against the scars and Mick snarls, but his hips buck forward and Ray takes that as a go-ahead. It’s fast and messy and there’s no real rhythm, no moving in unison, but Ray keeps squeezing his eyes shut from the overload of sensation. He really hasn’t expected to have sex anytime soon, and there’s something to be said about this, filthy and wet, unexpected and a little bit insane. 

 

The orgasm doesn’t so much build up as catch him by surprise, rolling over him like a tidal wave and sweeping all coherent thought out of his brain, leaving him gasping and clutching at Mick’s back as if the man were his lifeline. He tries to stifle the sounds he’s making in Mick’s shoulder, lips and teeth and tongue bruising the uneven skin, and Mick retaliates with fingers in Ray’s hair, just this side of too tight. Ray spills all over his stomach, come smeared as Mick thrusts a few more times and then tenses, completely still for a moment before he lets out a loud hiss and collapses, stubbly face smushed against Ray’s chest where something unnamed and terrifying builds. It makes Ray want to slide his hand up Mick’s back, run his fingers over the shaved skull and maybe kiss Mick again, now that everything feels languid and relaxed and almost blissful. He’s thinking of doing all that, as soon as he regains the ability to move: but Mick shakes himself out of the post-coital stupor first and pushes himself off the bunk, grabs his shorts and pulls them on and just… walks out, without looking back, without saying so much as a ‘good night’ or ‘thank you’ - do people say ‘thank you’ after sex?  Ray doesn’t think so, but even that would certainly be better than watching the man leave without a word while his smeared come is still cooling on Ray’s skin. 

 

He finds the strength to roll over and grab a sock off the ground to clean up the mess, because he’s still boneless and a little dizzy and he doesn’t feel like risking the communal showers. It makes him feel about fourteen, ashamed of everything and confused by the world at large and his body in particular, but he falls asleep anyway. It might be a sign of  _ something _ that he sleeps deeper and better than he has in weeks, even though it does not make the loneliness go away. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set out to write a PWP, and once again, I failed :'D I just wanted me some bottom!Mick dammit. Sorry for the long wait, real life and writer's block have been kicking my ass for so long now. This chapter is unbetaed and written chaotically over the course of a few months, so constructive criticism and any comments will be greatly appreciated.

Ray wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a train. It might have something to do with the uneasy dreams of a scarred chest and huge hands that haunt him through the night; the guilty boner wilts pretty quickly when he remembers the way things ended.

He’s not even sure they _have_ ended – Mick didn’t say anything and Ray might be able to talk a mile a minute, but he’s none the wiser about how to approach this particular subject. That’s one of the perks – or drawbacks – of only ever sleeping with women he was dating at the time: awkward mornings-after aren’t really his area of expertise.

Or, well, at least not _this_ particular kind of awkward. Ray thinks he can do alright with the ‘you wanted to do that one thing in bed and I kinda messed up’ awkward. Even the ‘I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary’ awkward. Late-bloomer sexuality-crisis awkward? Not so much.

The shower makes him feel less like a zombie and by the time he trudges to the kitchen area to make himself a gigantic cup of coffee, he’s ready to take the well-traveled road of purposeful ignorance.

That is, until Sara, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal, spots him, swallows, and whistles.

“Had some fun, huh?”

Ray gives her a blank look, his brain refusing to compute the meaning until Sara smirks at him and pointedly touches the side of her neck. The memory of Mick’s teeth breaks out in goosebumps over Ray’s skin and he slaps his hand against the place where he suspects he must be bruised.

Sara laughs.

“Too late. Was it a ring card girl? It was the blonde, wasn’t it.”

The reminder of the boxing ring just brings back the vision of Mick, sweaty and adrenaline-fueled, wearing silky shorts and a determined scowl. Wearing nothing, grinding against Ray like the world was ending, letting out those quiet, strangled breaths that weren’t quite moans.

Ray swallows hard and turns away so that Sara doesn’t see his cheeks burning, but he has a feeling she knows anyway.

“It wasn’t the blonde,” he mumbles reluctantly and busies himself with coffee prep. If grad school has given him anything (apart from extensive engineering knowledge), it’s the ability to get caffeine into his system even when he’s half-comatose. The practiced motions help settle his mind a little, but when he turns back with the steaming mug, Sara’s still there.

Still visibly amused.

“The redhead, then?” she shrugs, and Ray coughs into his coffee. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re not one for kiss-and-tell? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the brunette, if you catch my drift.”

Sara’s always smug, afterwards, floating on a happy little cloud of gloating and satisfaction. Ray wonders what Mick is like, and the thought twists sourly in his stomach, like a reminder of a chance he missed without even knowing it.

“It wasn’t any of them,” he sighs, and wishes he could lie better, tell her he got a handjob from a ring card girl instead of… whatever _that_ was with Mick, yesterday. She won’t let it go so easily, not when she’s had her own stroke of luck (or, well, a stroke of _something_ ), and Ray’s not sure he wants to talk about it.

“Then who-“ The smile freezes on Sara’s face and her gaze turns stern. “Tell me you didn’t start a… a _thing_ with Amaya. Seriously, Ray? First Felicity, then Kendra – could you maybe choose someone emotionally available next time around?”

He thinks about Mick, barely speaking half a word that’s not a barb, keeping his distance even though he sticks with the team. If Sara’s on to something there and he has a thing for the unattainable, he couldn’t have chosen a better object of his misguided feelings, that’s for sure.  
  
And when exactly has this _thing_ progressed to the _feelings_ category?! Ray feels panic rising in his throat like bile. He shrugs and burns his throat on the coffee while trying to ignore Sara’s insistent stare, but he hasn’t been trained for early-morning interrogations. Just as he’s about to fold and beg her to let it go, Mick saunters into the kitchen area, growls something that’s definitely not a ‘good morning’, grabs a handful of snacks and stalks away again, all in a matter of seconds.

Ray doesn’t even realize he’s watching Mick’s retreating back (again) until Sara’s quiet gasp tears him out of his daze.

“You can’t be serious,” she hisses, and she sounds amused and appalled in equal measure. Ray wishes he could tell her she’s wrong. “Mick?! Really?”

“He’s not that bad,” Ray mutters defensively, wincing when Sara’s spoon clangs loudly as it drops into the bowl. His misery must show in his face, because she sighs as she pushes away from the table, holding her hands up in defeat.

“You know what, I don’t want to know. It’s your life. Do whatever you want.”

If only it were as easy as that – if only Ray knew what it is that he wants.

“I could use some friendly advice?” he tries, reaching out blindly like a drowning man grasping at the straws. Sara’s snort is not what he wants to hear in response.

“I’m the worst person to ask for that. Talk to Nate, he must’ve had at least _some_ fun in school. Or try Stein, he’s the resident expert on old men here.”

“Mick’s not old,” Ray huffs, because really, he isn’t. Sara only raises an eyebrow.

“He was already doing time while you were learning your ABCs.”

“I’ll have you know I could read when I was four?”

The joke falls flat, probably because the delivery is lacking in his current state of mind. Sara looks like she’s actively trying not to laugh, anyway. Probably at the mess Ray’s managed to get himself into, rather than his stellar sense of humor. Before she walks out, she gives him one last glance and doesn’t quite manage to conceal the pity.

„Seriously, go talk to Nate, with a face like that he’s bound to have given it the good old college try.”

In Ray’s defense, he does make the effort; but there’s no easy way to steer the conversation to the waters of ‘I’m having an identity crisis at thirty-seven and I don’t even know if it’s a proper one because I’m still not attracted to guys in general, but the sex was pretty mind-blowing until Mick just walked away without a word.”

So Ray makes burgers, and he and Nate each wolf down their weight in fries, joking about traveling to the future to see all the new Star Wars movies and not talking about anyone’s college experience – or lack thereof.

Ray ends up watching Mick for the next few days and trying to be subtle about it. But no matter how long he stares (and pretends to be studying schematics for his suit), Mick doesn’t seem any different. He’s got his grumpy moments, his quiet ones, and then the times when he’s loudly amused at someone else’s expense, but he doesn’t glance Ray’s way at all. And something in Ray’s chest curls up into a tight ball of misery at the thought. Not that he could ever be naïve enough to imagine a ‘happily-ever-after’ with Mick Rory, of all people in the world.

No, of course not. He’s not _in love_ with Mick, that’s for sure, and he doesn’t expect bouquets of roses or candle-lit dinners (that might actually be a really bad idea, considering Mick’s pyromania). But some sort of acknowledgement would be nice, a glance or a smile or… any gesture that would make Ray feel less _alone_ with all the confusion and worry.

Mostly the confusion, though. There are moments when he manages to convince himself that it was all just heat-of-the-moment, just a ‘friendly hand’ between two teammates who have been stuck on the same ship for way too long. But then someone mentions Snart and Mick gets that haunted look on his face, or he reaches for something and his shoulders are outlined perfectly under the stretch of his shirt, and Ray’s back to square one, stomach flipping and heart hammering away.

He feels on edge all the time, even when Mick’s not in the room – it’s pretty much like high school all over again, with the constant fear that he’s going to make an awkward idiot out of himself in front of everyone. It’s an odd feeling, because Ray has invested _years_ into not caring what people thought of him, and he hasn’t completely managed yet, but before _this_ , before Mick, he was definitely further down the road to success. Sara hasn’t said anything to anyone, Ray’s pretty sure, but he still finds himself bouncing his leg nervously under the table or pacing around just to walk off a bit of the nervous energy that seems to have lodged itself deep in his gut. On one occasion, while the team’s discussing their next mission, Ray keeps clicking the pen until Mick reaches across the table and wraps his thick, callused fingers around Ray’s hand. Ray manages not to squeak, but he can’t focus on anything Sara’s saying for the rest of the torturous ten minutes of the meeting, and he flees to the gym as soon as it’s over.

He hits the punching bag until he can’t really feel his knuckles anymore, but it does little to clear his mind. Physical activity never really worked on him the way it does on some people, taking him out of his tangled thoughts and delivering some sort of a fleeting peace: he’s thinking just as fast as usual, except he’s also breathing hard and wiping sweat off his brow, which only reminds him of Mick again, how he looked in those terrible shiny shorts, glistening like some sort of a Greek god (Hephaestus, maybe, with all that scarring and heat, and does that make Ray Aphrodite in the scenario, except he doesn’t really expect Mick to fall in love with him, and why can’t he ever find an off-switch for his brain) as he stalked towards Ray with heated intent in his eyes.

Ray groans and rubs his forearm across his face again, sweat stinging in his eyes just as much as the unnamed longing in his gut.

So of course that’s when the door whooshes open and in walks the one man Ray really doesn’t want to face now, lest he blurt out something embarrassing like ‘why did you leave’ or ‘what does it all mean’.

Mick being Mick has no trouble voicing his thoughts.

“The fuck’s wrong with you, Haircut?” he grumbles, looking at Ray as if maybe, he’s honestly worried. Ray’s stomach clenches again, this time due to the guilt of making someone worry about him, and he tries mumbling ‘nothing’ in turn, but he’s never been a very good liar.

“Bullshit,” Mick snorts, as expected. Ray doesn’t look at him – _can’t_ look at him while breathing hard and trying not to remember the thing that Mick’s apparently forgotten already – but on the periphery of his vision, through the itch that prickles at the nape of his neck, he’s still aware of Mick moving closer.

“I’m fine,” he tries again, voice shaking as he loses the battle with the gravity that’s Mick. He glances up, ready to laugh it off, but all sound dies in his throat when he meets Mick’s eyes. It’s the same look as before, all heat and very little reason, burning away the last of Ray’s resistance to… what? He’s stumbling in the dark here and he wants to tell Mick, wants to ask for patience or help or at least a map through this minefield of the unexpected, but Mick’s all up in his space and Ray’s too busy swallowing and breathing in the scent that he remembers all too well, soap and sweat and fire and _Mick_.  

“I’m not gay,” Ray blurts out, and that’s not what he wanted to say at all, but somehow that’s what makes it through. Wide-eyed, he stares at Mick, way closer than Ray realized (and was there always so much green in Mick’s irises?). Mick’s frustrated sigh brushes against Ray’s jaw – they’re close, _really_ close, wow – but he only raises an eyebrow in the end.

“That what got your panties in a twist?”

Ray thinks about it, or at least tries, with the help of the last few brain cells that aren’t fried by the close proximity to the man he hasn’t been able to get out of his head for days.

“No,” he sighs honestly, because maybe, at the beginning, Mick being a man has made it into the Top Ten of Why This Is a Horrible Idea. But after having examined his feelings on the subject, the possibility – no, the _reality_ of being attracted to a man isn’t the most shocking about the whole ordeal.

Mick apparently finds no reason for any close examination of the academic kind, because he lets out an amused huff and grumbles ‘good’ before assaulting Ray’s lips with a bruising kiss.

And it’s really more of an attack than any tender moment: Mick’s large hand closes around Ray’s sweaty neck and it’s so eerily, wonderfully similar to their previous encounter that Ray goes a little weak in the knees just from the simple gesture. Mick’s tongue invades his mouth and Ray surrenders willingly, for about five seconds before the need to give as good as he takes kicks in and he’s grasping at Mick’s shoulders, keeping him close so that he doesn’t have to think or talk himself out of this.

Unfortunately, his lungs have a different idea of a good time. When he comes up for air, his brain starts whirring again, which just proves that maybe he should let his body do the thinking for once. Except that got him nowhere last time, if ‘misery’ doesn’t count as ‘somewhere’. Although the misery came after a really, really good moment of pure bliss… which lasted much shorter than all the confusion and anxiety afterwards.

On rare occasions like this, Ray really hates his brain.

“Why are you here?” he asks quietly, forcing himself not to look away, because he wants to see how Mick reacts.

The first part is mostly confusion as Mick scowls and shrugs, the movement rippling under Ray’s hands still firmly on Mick’s shoulders.

“Sara said I should talk to you.”

Ah. Ray fights the blush he feels rising up his neck, and he wonders if he could ascribe it to the strain of his impromptu training session. Probably not.

“Did she say why?”

Mick growls in the back of his throat.

“No. But I’d rather fuck than talk if that’s okay with you, Haircut. Talking’s overrated.”

Ray would usually disagree, but Mick’s awfully close and it’s shifting Ray’s perspective a little. And the crude acknowledgement of their previous horizontal activities is both a punch to the gut, after days of having been completely ignored by the other man, and a surprising turn-on. Ray’s never been one for dirty talk, always getting too tangled up in words to do it well and never having had a partner who would be into that; Ray’s not even sure if Mick saying the word ‘fuck’ in its rightful meaning for once counts as dirty talk.

But while his brain struggles to catch up, his body is completely on board and he finds himself nodding slowly even though he doesn’t really know what he’s agreeing to. Another quickie after which Mick up and leaves without so much as a ‘thank you’? (Not that Ray would want that, he’s learned the hard way that verbal gratitude after sex is not appreciated by most people.) Or is Mick trying to establish a routine here, a routine where they have incredibly hot and slightly messed-up sex instead of talking? Ray’s actually not a fan of that, and he frowns at Mick’s back as the other man pulls him through the Waverider’s corridors towards… oh. Mick’s room.

Ray hasn’t been in there very often, and even then, not for very long. He always felt a bit like he was intruding on Mick’s secrets, sticking his nose (and the rest of himself) where he wasn’t wanted, not even on those occasions when Mick looked like he needed company more than another beer.

But now, Mick’s willingly letting him in, and when he turns to face Ray after the door quietly slides shut, there’s no trace of that mild annoyance in his eyes, no hint that he wants Ray to leave his space. That unconditional welcome throws Ray off-balance in the best of ways – and then Mick grabs his face and slams their mouths together, and Ray decides then and there that defining the relationship in actual human words is overrated. So is breathing; Ray ignores the black spots that start dancing at the edge of his vision after a while, too busy kissing Mick right back. He starts tugging at the stupid shirt that’s in the way of what he wants (free access to Mick’s naked skin, thank you very much). Mick pulls away, kiss-swollen lips twisting into a smirk:

“Eager much, Haircut?”

“Yes,” Ray breathes, voice shot to hell. He glances up, ready to have his honesty thrown back at him in a sneer, but Mick blinks and something flickers over his face, something warm and vulnerable and terrified, before he lunges for Ray’s mouth again and Ray lets him, not ready for a conversation neither of them know how to start – or end. Mick pulls back for the two seconds it takes him to yank his shirt over his head and then he’s back, all raw heat, hands sliding down Ray’s back until they’re resting over Ray’s ass, possessive and huge and Ray never would’ve guessed that _this_ would be a turn-on, but… oh well.

And _then_ he’s being hitched up until his legs rest around Mick’s waist and wow, that’s definitely new, but the near-violent throb of arousal that follows is an indication that he’s very much into it. He lets out a short bark of laughter before he’s leaning down to kiss Mick again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in that tiny sliver of it that’s not yet completely consumed with lust, Ray knows that there’s a good chance he’s going to be dropped on his head if Mick stumbles on his way to bed – but then Mick bites his lip, teeth grazing down to Ray’s neck, and he’s growling under his breath and yeah, okay, Ray’s whole mind is definitely lust-consumed. Who knew he had a caveman fetish? Or maybe it’s just Mick’s particular brand of caveman… which would open up a whole new can of worms if it’s true. Boy, is Ray glad he can’t think straight right now (no pun intended).

They make out like horny teenagers for a good long while; Ray doesn’t remember the last time he did that, teeth and tongue everywhere, sloppy and wild. At some point, Mick snarls at Ray’s black tank top and very nearly gives him carpet burn with how fast he wrenches it off. Ray doesn’t have time to comment or even _think_ about discomfort because then Mick’s settling between his legs and angling his hips against Ray’s and _holy moly_ what a feeling.

That’s the thought that gives Ray’s mind soundtrack for the next stretch of vigorous groping and grinding. Mick’s hand finds its way to Ray’s pants, calluses scraping against the sensitive skin of Ray’s ass, and then pants have to go. Ray’s not sorry about that – he’s a little sorry about the time it takes them to get rid of the last articles of clothing, because any time not spent making out is apparently time lost, in Ray’s current opinion. Having started off with just sweats and the discarded tank-top (so what, it’s laundry day _somewhere_ in the time-space continuum), Ray’s done first and he gets to watch Mick kick off his boxers and pull off his socks. That last one is oddly intimate in the low, bluish light of Mick’s bunk, picking out Mick’s scars in soft shadows as he hops around on one foot, then another.

It strikes Ray that this moment right here is the eye of the storm, the few seconds of quiet clarity about what exactly it is that has settled somewhere in his stomach lately. Soon the moment will be gone, he knows, and he’ll be drawn back into the whirlwind of kiss, touch, thrust, but for yet another second or two, he can look at Mick and just… _know_.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Mick snorts as he turns to Ray, scowling, but more puzzled than mad. “Stop it.”

“Make me,” Ray chuckles – he never thought he could get away with a cheesy line like that, but Mick’s look makes him want to try. His laugh turns into a groan when Mick settles back between Ray’s legs in one smooth move and kisses him deeply, hands traveling down Ray’s body. For a long, beautiful while, everything’s good.

And then Mick stretches over Ray and rummages in his bedside table, a mangy thing that lists to one side precariously. He gives a little grunt of satisfaction when he finds what he’s looking for, and Ray’s eyes grow wide.

It’s lube, no mistaking it; Ray’s stomach twists in a tight knot and he can feel panic building up in his chest. He’s not sure he’s ready to let Mick do… _that_ , no matter how sure Ray was of himself and of whatever this is between them just a moment ago. He doesn’t necessarily want to say no, and he wouldn’t know where to begin without pushing Mick away for good, and it doesn’t help his stomach any when he starts bracing for the inevitable and tells himself not to be such a baby about it.

By then, Mick has straddled his hips with a determined scowl on his face, not looking at Ray as he uncaps the lube and slicks his fingers. Ray watches the proceedings with some trepidation, his mind a storm of warring emotions (but mostly… he doesn’t want to say _fear_ , but there’s definitely _worry_ ). He’s still half-hard and he really, really wants to get back to what they were doing, but he doesn’t have the first clue how to say ‘I’m not sure I want your dick in me’ without it sounding rude.

Mick finally meets his eye – there’s a faint flush in his cheeks even in the blue-tinted light of the room, and he reaches back to-

-oh.

“Oh,” Ray mumbles and watches in absolute wonder how Mick’s face becomes far more expressive than it usually is as he stretches himself. Ray’s used to seeing Mick scowl and grin, grimace at things and roll his eyes, but this unfocused, slightly dazed expression feels so new and so fragile that Ray almost doesn’t dare to breathe. His hands trail up Mick’s scarred thighs and just rest there; the knot in his stomach is suddenly gone, replaced with a rush of so much warmth that he wants to share some of it. Mick searches his gaze and then lets out an almost inaudible gasp and Ray slips a hand around the back of Mick’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, Mick stopping and just breathing a few times, but Ray still wouldn’t trade this moment for the world. There’s definitely potential in ‘hot and wild’, but he’s discovering that with Mick, ‘slow and sweet’ isn’t completely off the table.

Even though he’ll probably never be able to say those words out loud to Mick without a risk of getting burned. Literally.

Ray chuckles at the thought, not intimidated in the least: Mick could shove his heat gun in Ray’s face and Ray would still remember all those times when Mick used that gun to protect him, or to save him, or to support him.

And then it becomes difficult to think about anything at all because Mick’s slick fingers encircle Ray’s cock and pump, once, twice, and Ray’s gritting his teeth against the sensation. He’s fully hard now, just like that; Mick leans down and grumbles in his ear, “I want you to fuck me _now_ ” and Ray’s lost in the expectation building up in the pit of his stomach. He only realizes he’s mumbling ‘yeah okay let’s do that, yeah’ when he finds Mick staring back at him warily.

“I… Gideon already… I’m clean,” Mick snarls, like he’s angry at himself for stammering out the statement that’s really a question, and Ray feels that rush of warmth again. His Eagle Scout habits are telling him to be careful, but his Ray Palmer instincts are mostly just screaming ‘yes’ in Mick’s general direction, so Ray smiles and slips his trembling fingers further up Mick’s legs, thumbs resting in the warm, sweaty junctures of Mick’s hips and thighs.

“I guess so am I? I haven’t… you know. Since Kendra.”

He can’t believe how long ago that was, and how dull the pain feels now, with Mick’s warm weight above him, one hand pressed into Ray’s shoulder and the other guiding his dick towards Mick’s opening. By all means, it should be weird, but Ray just feels like maybe, this badly lit, cramped nook of their crazy world might be where he finally fits in.

Which is a really weird thought to have just as the head of his cock breaches the tight ring of muscle, but hey, Ray’s been having weird for breakfast for the past year, and this is definitely the kind of weird he can get used to. He sighs and tries to bite at the inside of his mouth to keep himself from turning embarrassingly loud at the sensation of Mick’s tight, tight heat enveloping him. Mick’s head is inclined forward and he’s not looking at Ray, eyes squeezed shut as if he’s concentrating too hard to pay attention to anything else. Ray really, really wants to move, but even with his absolute lack of experience when it comes to anal sex he’s pretty sure that Mick needs a minute, if his forcefully deep breaths are anything to go by. So Ray runs his hands over Mick’s stomach as a distraction, over the puckered scars covering his right side, dangerously close to his nipple. Ray runs his thumb lovingly over the tiny nub, feels Mick shudder under his touch as the other man opens his eyes and scowls.

“Fuck,” he huffs, then does something that Ray doesn’t understand but as a result, his cock is allowed another inch deeper. It would be almost a religious experience – Ray really, really loves just being buried balls-deep in someone (he cares about) and he’s well on his way to that here – if only Mick weren’t still scowling at him. “You’re _big_ , Haircut.”

Ray grins. Mick punches him in the shoulder, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

“That ain’t a good thing here, dammit.”

“Statistically speaking, I’m not too far above average, actually,” Ray shrugs, never one to allow for scientific inaccuracy, even though he should just take the ego boost. On the other hand, he’s feeling genuinely worried now and he frowns a little, brushing his thumb over Mick’s ribcage in soothing half-circles:

“We can stop, you know. You don’t have to… there’s other stuff. I assume, at least – you’re the first guy I’ve done this with, so I wouldn’t know.”

Mick just stares at him, for a good long while, and then he’s leaning down and kissing Ray like there’s no tomorrow. Ray’s not sure what he’s done but he’s not complaining, wrapping one hand around Mick’s neck and slipping the other between their bodies, finding Mick’s half-hard cock. Mick whimpers into the kiss, a little sound that he’d probably deny until his dying day, but Ray hardly cares: he focuses on Mick’s reactions to every stroke and twist, feeling Mick’s cock grow heavier until he’s fully hard. In just a minute, Mick’s hips keep twitching forward on their own and Mick lets out a long, ragged breath, and suddenly things get a lot easier and Mick’s basically sitting in his lap, his hot balls nestled against the sensitive skin of Ray’s lower belly, right above the root of Ray’s cock. That’s not a sensation Ray would ever have imagined loving, but here he is.

And then Mick pushes himself upright again, supporting his weight with hands on Ray’s chest. He grins like he’s challenging Ray to some sort of a race, and then he begins riding Ray’s cock like he’s a pro. And he very well might be: Ray’s eyes roll back for a moment there and he grips Mick’s hips for support, so hard he’s worried he’s hurting the other man, but Mick seems beyond caring, eyes squeezed shut again and sweat dripping off his flushed face. He’s a sight to behold, a sight Ray wants burned into his memory forever, so he forces himself to watch even though it would be oh so easy to just close his eyes and lose himself in this sensation. He’s not going to last long, he already knows it – Mick’s too damn tight around his cock and he’s letting out these quiet breaths that aren’t quite sighs to the rhythm of his ass bouncing off Ray’s lap, and it’s the best thing Ray’s ever seen and heard and felt.

His hand has stilled on Mick’s cock and he does his best to remedy that, focusing on finding a rhythm that works with Mick’s. On a particularly successful upstroke-twist, Mick’s jaw tightens and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, and his whole body tenses, which makes muscles ripple all around Ray’s cock. Ray’s whole body curls in on itself at the intense sensation and he lets out an embarrassing mewl. His back arches and his knees draw up; Mick’s eyes grow wide for a split second as he’s pitched forward by the motion. His forearms land close to Ray’s head, face mere inches from Ray’s and there’s an odd expression in his eyes, wonder and worry and a lot of other things. But Ray’s too far gone to play the guessing game, hands scrabbling frantically across scarred skin, breath coming out in Mick’s name.

Sweat drips into his eye and Ray doesn’t know if it’s his or Mick’s, but then a large, hot hand brushes against his forehead and Ray squeezes his eyes shut even harder because he doesn’t want that touch to go away. He’s beyond rhythm already, bucking under the wonderful weight of Mick above him, thrusting and groaning and kneading two handfuls of Mick’s toned ass, and wondering about how he never thought it could be like-

“God, oh god, Mick, yes, Mick, Mick-“

“Yeah, do it, do it, I got you-“

“Mick, oh, oh, god!”

-no, he’s not wondering about anything anymore, mind going completely blank. All he can feel is the blinding orgasm that tears through him with force that leaves him breathless and on the verge of passing out. The only thing that filters through the haze of locked-up muscle and raw pleasure is the sound of Mick’s quiet gasps as he continues to fuck himself on Ray’s cock with short rolls of his hips, his fingers fisting in Ray’s hair almost to the point of pain. He did that – _Ray_ did that, made Mick lose it so completely, and he’s grinning before he can stop himself.

But he’s pretty sure he’s allowed some post-coital pride after what just happened here.

Eventually Mick rolls off of him with a grunt, landing face-down on the mattress that definitely wasn’t built to hold two grown men. Ray doesn’t mind the proximity or the way Mick’s huffs brush against his sweaty shoulder, where he can still feel the impression of Mick’s hand from before. Ray’s absolutely certain he’s still grinning, but the elation is slowly fading, replaced by uncertainty.

What’s the protocol here? Last time, at this point Mick just up and left, without so much as a word, and Ray’s still feeling boneless, but the moment when he technically _could_ leave is fast approaching.

Trouble is, he really doesn’t want to. He watches the ceiling for a moment, listening to his own breath returning to normal, to Mick’s quiet huffs and shifts. There’s about a minute where he’s pretty sure Mick’s snoring lightly, and maybe that’s why Ray notices when the soothing rhythm of Mick’s breathing is replaced with a tense, heavy silence.

He swallows, throat suddenly dry. Mick shifts until he’s lying on his side, his back to Ray, and it feels a little like being kicked out. Ray could just get up and go… but he refuses to feel (again) like a stupid teenager who shouldn’t have trusted a college boy. He refuses the confusion and loneliness of the past few days, because he can see the future right before him as if someone has painted it onto his eyelids. If he slinks away now, without a word, he’s going to be miserable, and Sara’s going to notice, and she’s going to send Mick his way again and they’ll be right where they started, over and over again until one of them breaks that vicious circle.

He clears his throat and turns to Mick – well, Mick’s _back_ , now visibly tensing, as if the man also knows that the silence has to end.

“Do you want me to-“

“Shut up and go to sleep, Haircut,” Mick grumbles under his breath. Something in Ray uncoils at the words and Ray turns to his side as well, mostly because the bed’s pretty narrow, but also because it’s easier to curl up closer to Mick this way. His forehead rests against the nape of Mick’s neck, the back of Ray’s hand nestling between Mick’s shoulderblades. For a second or two, Ray worries that Mick’s going to pull away – but it doesn’t take long for the tension to drain out of Mick’s back, slowly but surely.

Ray can’t help but smile to himself. It feels like he’s being invited to more than just Mick’s physical space here, and he’s not going to let the opportunity slip. For the past few years, Ray’s fought tooth and nail for every inch of space in the lives of women he loved; with Mick, it feels a little like landslide, like falling into place around each other, inevitably and far from perfect. They’re still sweeping each other off their feet, and not always in the fairy-tale way, but maybe they can find a way to balance each other out in the end.

Ray falls asleep still smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://pheuthe.tumblr.com) :)


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